


Of Keys and Locks

by AgentJoanneMills



Series: Blackfyre Universe [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Alternate Universe - Blackfyre, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - White Collar AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 05:50:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14928348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: Clarke is an amazing artist . . . and art thief.Lexa is the RBI agent tasked with catching her.They don’t meet at the best of circumstances.Alternatively:A White Collar AU xBlackfyreAU, where Clarke and Lexa Targaryen get reincarnated as a criminal and a law enforcer, respectively.





	Of Keys and Locks

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.

 

Alex wills herself to remain calm. She’s an adult who deals with criminals on a regular basis, and one thing she has learned over the years is that having a huge reservoir of patience is a very important part of the job, especially if she wants to keep her sanity.

If only she could tap into that reservoir right now.

The blue-eyed blonde standing before her makes it very hard for Alex to do so.

It’s been barely a day since Alex struck a deal with internationally renowned art criminal Claire Hawkes, allowing the latter to work with the Royal Bureau of Investigation’s White Collar Division as a consultant for the remainder of her sentence under the former’s supervision.

Alex left her yesterday in a run-down motel, with the express instruction to stay within the parameters Hawkes’s tracking anklet has set—and a suggestion that should she find a better accommodation that could be afforded by $700 a month, then she should take it.

Alex made the suggestion in jest, not fully understanding what she’s getting herself into.

And now she’s paying for the consequences.

She went back earlier to the motel to pick Hawkes up for work, but Hawkes _left_. Alex is annoyed, and it’s only a bit settled because at least Hawkes did not run—there’s an address for her, which she fully intended to check out immediately.

And she did. And then Alex’s annoyance flared again because the address turned out to be to a gorgeous five-story house with a fucking _view_ of the city and the coffee’s fantastic and really, she should have seen this coming.

 

****

 

“I dropped you off at the DuPont not twenty-four hours ago, Hawkes,” Alex gritted out, “and when I come get you, you’re nowhere to be found. Now, tell me what the hell you did before I haul your ass back where it should be.”

Hawkes merely looked up at her from the newspaper she’s reading in the house’s terrace—an actual terrace!—and sighed, as if Alex had disappointed _her_ greatly. “Relax, Agent,” she said, “I haven’t done anything wrong. Ms. Blake offered this penthouse to me, and I’m going to be paying her monthly rent, just as agreed.”

“Try again, buddy.” Alex crossed her arms. “There’s no way you can afford this with the stipend the bureau’s willing to give you. So just get your stuff and I’ll call the DuPont to see if the room’s still available.”

“Yeah, no can do, Agent.” Hawkes showed no intention of moving. “I’d rather go back to prison than return to that bug-infested excuse of a motel.”

“I can have that arranged,” Alex said, but before she could go any further, a stately old woman opened the terrace door with a tray of coffee and _scones_.

_Seven freaking hells._

“Settle down, boys,” the woman said, smiling kindly, “no brawls in my terrace.”

Ah, this must be Ms. Blake then.

Hawkes confirmed it. “Hey, Ms. Blake,” she said, “I do apologise for my colleague’s—”

“ _Parole officer_ ,” Alex corrected with a glare, which went largely ignored.

“—bad temper. She’s very grumpy without her coffee, you know.”

“Ms. Blake,” Alex addressed the woman, who was placing the treats on the table, “forgive my manners. I’m Alex Woodson. I work with the RBI White Collar Division. Are you aware that this person is a known felon who has been let out of prison only recently?”

Ms. Blake, strangely for Alex, laughed. “Of course,” she answered, “Claire has told me everything, including why she’s got that tracking anklet on. You know, my late husband himself was caught up in the life back in the day.” She grinned, and her voice softened. “He was a con artist, my man.”

Alex, honestly, was at a complete loss as to how to respond to that. Claire, the brat, smirked at her. “See? Ms. Blake knows. We keep no secrets here, Agent.”

“Shut up.” Alex rubbed at her eyes. “There’s still the matter of the payment.”

“That’s settled.” Claire grabbed a scone. “Ms. Blake lets me live here for the same cost as DuPont, as long as I lend her a hand whenever she needs help, you know, fixing things and stuff.”

Alex heaved a sigh, resigned. “You know what? I don’t care. Live here or whatever. Just keep your end of the bargain.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.” Alex sat down, and snatched the scone away before Hawkes could take a bite. “Now, go get changed ’cause we’re expected in the office in half an hour. I’ll wait right here.” She helped herself to some coffee as well.

Hawkes glared, but she complied. Alex bit into the scone.

And it’s freaking _delicious_ , because of course it is. What the fuck.

Ugh.)

****

 

Claire Hawkes is a world-class con artist, and _of course_ she’d find a way to live in a house better than Alex’s own, with access to heavenly coffee and all the finer things in life that had landed Hawkes’s ass in jail in the first place.

And the most maddening thing about the whole situation is that Alex knows that Hawkes did not, for all intents and purposes, break any rules. She _is_ within the two-mile radius the bureau arranged for her, the place _is_ within budget (complete with the fucking _view_ and the fucking _coffee_ ), and there have been _no_ felonious activities done for the acquisition of those things (as far as Alex knows, at least).

It makes Alex’s head pound.

Hawkes—now impeccably dressed in a suit that seems to be tailored just for her, with a fedora to match—is looking at her with part-amusement, part-taunting, and Alex remembers the years she spent tracking Hawkes down until she could lock her up.

Claire Hawkes _loves_ the chase, _loves_ the game, _loves_ the rush.

Crime is as much a part of Claire as the law is a part of Alex.

Alex wonders if this partnership would be the one that kills her.

When Claire tells her that the coffee is something like Italian roast, Alex knew that it would be.

Alex just about loses it, and she orders Hawkes to get in the car before she can do some lasting damage— like shred her suit and her damn hat to pieces.

 

(Hawkes continues to do that damn hat trick, and she really _does_ look like a fucking cartoon. An adorable one, sure, but—

No. Alex refuses to go there. There’s no _there_ as far as Alex is concerned. Nope.)

 

Alex sighs—deep, resigned, exasperated.

Yep.

This partnership would kill her, if she didn’t kill the fucking adorably frustrating cartoon first.

(Frustratingly adorable?)

 

(Dammit.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me or something at [A Blank Canvas](http://agentjoannemills.tumblr.com/ask) or [@joampolin](https://twitter.com/joampolin). I would love to hear from you!
> 
> Ste yuj, kru!


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